


Antiphony

by princeparakeet



Series: Ephemeral/Eternal [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Family Drama, Family Feels, Fatherhood, Marriage, Memory Loss, Miscarriage, Motherhood, Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood, Phenomenology, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Resurrection, Reunions, Sex, Smut, Trauma, basically it's post canon so now i can do whatever the HELL i want MUWAHAHAHAH, but maybe i won't, i'm going to use the tag, maybe i'm trying too hard for a fanfic lmfao, subtly reject that stuff, there are not enough good tags for the shit i'm gonna do, where i can
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-11 18:47:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11720316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeparakeet/pseuds/princeparakeet
Summary: Of returns and love and loss. A broken family tries to mend itself."Antiphonal music is music that is performed by two semi-independent choirs in interaction, often singing alternate musical phrases."Much like a couple, two choirs may harmonize into one sound, yet are still independent of one another.





	1. Chapter 1

The pads of his fingers, rough from war, from work, catch on the smooth surface of her skin—her arms, the sides of her torso. The sheets seem to billow up around them like sails in a sunlit sea. She beams up at him from where she lies, laughter tinkling like a wind chime. Lon’qu is breathless; her soft and short hair, recently trimmed, splays out beneath her head like dried leaves, like the roots of a tree. His fingers go up her neck and play with the chopped tips against the nape. His face is flush, and so is hers, mouth opening in little exhales of pleasure as his hand wanders over her bare flesh.

It didn’t even matter that they were not clothed, exposed or naked—he was entranced by her eyes, by the way her gaze was so full of emotion. He wanted to bury his face in between her breasts, inhale her sweet scent, to fall asleep in her arms.

Gently, one of his broad hands strays down her inexplicably soft form, her lips coming up to meet his in the sweetest and most intoxicating of kisses, their tongues dancing and interlacing between their teeth. His fingers find the warm, pulsating area between her legs, and softly he slips a finger downwards, working in between her plush, moist folds as Aurora arches up underneath him, sighing in pleasure, her hands lacing around his back and fingers working into his hair. Tingles rocket up and down his spine and he feels a tightness boiling at the pit of his stomach. He ducks his head to fondle one of her breasts, taking the pink bud of her nipple between his teeth and pinching enough to elicit a sharp gasp from his lover. She clenches around his hand and grips his head tighter, fingernails digging into his skin as her stomach and chest, trembling with breath, rise and fall beneath him.

He works slowly, carefully and diligently, noting what silences her and what makes her thighs tremble. He plants butterfly kisses up her body until he reaches her lips, shaking and red, her eyes narrow and watering with pleasure. He watches, rapt, spellbound, like a devoted worshipper in a holy place, as Aurora comes completely undone beneath his hands. With several gasps, she finds her release around his fingers, her body disappearing within her own mind, flush against Lon’qu, soft as a cloud, his entirely too-rough hands and entirely too-large and worn form undeserving of a lover like her.

He closes his eyes too and sighs, waves of pleasure washing over him as well, his lips parted, the sun warm on his cheek and—

He had soiled his underclothes again.

Lon’qu comes crashing back to consciousness all too quickly, his body drenched in sweat underneath the heavy wool blanket that he pulled out last night when the stone walls of the Feroxi fortress in let too much cold. The sun beams in unforgivingly, through his window, snow glittering on the treetops and the fields as far as the eye could see.

Uncomfortable, he shifts from where he lies, flush on his back, his thighs hot and sticky with undesirable fluids. He groans, shutting his eyes.

How long had it been? He could not recall. Since Aurora disappeared, dreams like this plagued him every once and while, amongst other, disturbing nightmares of her body fading from his grasp, the dark tendrils of black magic engulfing them both as she screamed, though he remembered her passing more peacefully, even in the midst of battle. He sluggishly lifts a hand to gaze at it in the morning light, dust motes sifting in the air around him. Distantly, he wishes he was holding her hand.

It was dreams like this, off-hand wishes he made while he continued to exist, that attacked him while he was alone, around the corner after speaking to Flavia, out of view of the soldiers and recruits he was training, in the grand Feroxi library, in his quarters—where he was stabbed again and again with the black knife of her memory, the legacy that she would want him to continue. The tears flowed, hot and wet, against his will. Every day was a fight.

It was better that Morgan stayed away. He had no fatherly advice to give him, Lon’qu decided. What good of a father was he when he had failed to protect the mother the boy seemed to remember so clearly, to so painfully long for?

He rises, swiftly changing into a loose tunic and pants, shrugging on a coat over his shoulders and pulling his boots over his feet. Going to the window, he unlatches the panes, pushing them open. A blast of cold air greets him, but it is as refreshing a thing as Lon’qu could wish for. Winter was his favorite season. The wind whips past him, clattering in the bare tree branches and spitting ice across the frozen ground, skittering clumps of snow scattering off the stone-tiled roof of the fortress. A murder of crows roost in a nearby tree, ruffling their dark feathers, massive forms huddled together against the cold, occasionally exchanging muffled chatter. Lon’qu looks down, below the trees, just before the forest. There was Aurora’s gravestone, a solemn and solitary reminder. The sun sparkles off its polished surface.

Lissa, the sister of the Exalt, was supposed to arrive here on a diplomatic mission today. He supposed he should mentally prepare for her to approach him in some kind of way, if she had not already thoroughly learned her lesson from their tenure in the shepherds together. He absently wondered what diplomacy they would be discussing—did their countries not have a strong relationship already?

Quickly, he dresses in the rest of his uniform, as stiff and presentable as always, venturing out into the dark and lonely hallway where his quarters were located. The air out here is warm, the fortress lit by several roaring fires, in the kitchens, in an expansive common area, near the arena and the barracks….Lon’qu idly marks them in his head. Rounding a corner, he almost collides with a female chambermaid, her red hair and freckled face awash with shame. Clumsily, she gathers herself and steps around Lon’qu’s imposing form. He continues onward to the grand hall, where Khan Flavia sits at the head of a long table, digging into what appears to be a plate of sausage and potatoes. She throws back a glass of liquor, laughing and joking with one of the guards who stands by, a spear at his side.

“Boy!” she roars, almost in the exact same way as Basilio before her. She gestures to one of the guards and he shuffles away to a table, returning with a plate of similar foodstuffs and gingerly placing it a few chairs away from Flavia.

Lon’qu draws up a thick, heavy wooden chair to the plate, piled high with steaming food. It was too early to eat this much, but he doesn’t have the heart to call the guard back. Flavia munches away, glancing at him expectantly while he settles into his seat.

“How are you faring, Lon’qu?” she asks. The crackling and sputtering of the fire behind her reaches Lon’qu’s ears, the rest of the room illuminated by tall glass windows that stretch to the ceiling of the hall. Dust motes drift around in the slanting sunbeams. Lon’qu briefly wishes they would air the place out—it smelled like must and old carpet, of tapestries and rusted metal. He sighs, running a hand over his face, his sword sheath dully clunking against the leg of his chair.

“I am well, Flavia. Just fine,” he replies flatly. He no longer referred to her as “Khan Flavia,” not while he held his position as regent West-Khan, at the very least.

It had perhaps been a year since Aurora’s disappearance, though each passing week felt like an eon. He could not remember his age now, perhaps bordering on thirty, late into his second decade. His body did not seem to betray a thing, having the same strength as during the war, but when Lon’qu caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he was reminded of the scars that were peppered his body, pale and stretching over old wounds. The lightning-shaped one that blossomed over his upper left back brought back the most vivid memories, of Valm’s marshland dunes and Aurora tending to his wounds. He wondered who exactly that was, in his memories, who had been injured—who had his name and his mind. He did not feel one bit the same. 

Lon’qu has closed his eyes. Silence was his most comfortable state nowadays—it was a wonder to Flavia how he held this position so strongly. But she trusted Basilio’s belief in him, since the beginning, and watching the feisty swordsman mature and blossom into the role had warmed her up significantly to him.

She wonders briefly if he has begun to doze as she stands to go, her chair scraping on the cobblestone floor.

“Alright, boy, just be ready for the diplomat from Ylisse when they arrive.”

Lon’qu grunts in acknowledgement; his food remains untouched.

\---

Lissa arrives some hours later, the sun already low and beginning to dip behind the expansive tree line surrounding the main fortress. Lon’qu stands at a window in one of the hallways, watching the procession approach the main gate. _She need not arrive with such fanfare_ , he thinks to himself, scrutinizing the Ylissean garb of flowing white and pale yellow robes, her hair long and cascading out behind her, almost the spitting image of her sister Emmeryn before her. Her appearance has the slightest tinge of being unkempt, characteristic of the tomboy princess, who liked to mingle more with commoners than sit through diplomatic meetings. But he supposed she had knuckled under, like him, as she aged, taking up her role as seriously as she could. They had negotiated many other times before, so he knew how well she was succeeding. He tried not to compare himself to a woman in power, her mantle was larger than his, her cross heavier to bear.

He catches sight of a white, covered sedan chair near the back of the caravan, several feet behind Lissa, who, typical of Ylissean humility, walks in the front, on foot. Perhaps she brought her young son and wet nurse, a valued retainer, or, he thinks with chagrin, a bodyguard, the same position he held during the war against Plegia.

Thinking of a nursing child in that sedan reminds him of Morgan, and he frowns, eager to banish such thoughts. Perhaps that is who sat in the sedan, but no, he denies, musing that if Morgan came, as he had in the past, he would walk out in front beside Lissa, hand on his sword, face stoic. Much like Lon’qu himself would have done. 

Soon, he is bowing low, Lissa demonstrating a delicate curtsey, in the main entrance hall. The broad, tall doors sit open, chilly wind blowing at the flags and pennants held on high poles of the Ylissean procession.

“Lon’qu,” Lissa murmurs as she walks closer to him. “How good it is to see you again.” She extends her pale, waiflike arms in the gesture for an embrace, long rivulets of ivory fabric trailing along the deep red carpet. Lon’qu wonders briefly how she did not trip over them.

He stiffens but welcomes her hug, as brief as she can make it. Pulling back, she gives him a warm smile, giggling a bit in the girlish manner Lon’qu was familiar with. He remembers then that she thought he was handsome, when they first met. How different life would be now if his heart did not belong to someone long perished.

He turns and gestures down the long hallway, neglecting to offer his arm, but knowing that it does not matter entirely too much. He eyes the covered sedan briefly, still wary of its presence, like a beast in the background of a peaceful painting.

“Shall we?” he asks. As they turn to go, a guard shuts the main gate with a clang behind them. Snow billows inside in puffs and dancing rings of cold.

\---

“So, the leading trade company here requires a bit more regulation,” Lissa says in summation, laying a hand over the broad expanse of maps and books that covered the table between them. Lon’qu watches her from where he sits, pacing back and forth, her brow furrowed in thought.

He shrugs, fiddling with a dry quill pen. “I cannot make them do much more, or they may riot and withdraw their support.”

“All I am saying is that their methods of bargaining are simply…aggressive. We do not want war on this continent again.” She ends with a murmur, staring down at the plush carpet of the study. She lifts her gaze to one of the broad glass windows. Outside, the snow is falling softly, the night blue and dark, the forest foreboding. She was planning to stay the night anyway.

“It’s very fragile, I know,” Lon’qu grumbles, staring hard at the trade routes scribbled and scrawled across the massive map in various colored inks. He couldn’t have imagined, about five years ago, that he would lead a life like this now—negotiating trade routes with the second-in-command of another country. It had the potential of sounding terribly drab—and often Lon’qu thought it was. He preferred training the fiery Feroxi soldiers.

 _If Aurora was here…_ he mused, he didn’t…actually know what she would be doing if she were here. A small shock goes through him as he tries to remember what she was like, but he knew no Aurora outside of the war, outside of their youth.

If she was here, perhaps Lon’qu wouldn’t even know her. Perhaps she wouldn’t even care for him anymore.

“I’m going to retire for the night,” Lissa says, snapping Lon’qu out of his brooding, clasping her hands together and glancing at the increasingly heavy snowfall outside the window, in the courtyard before the woods. She half-lied; she would attend to another important matter first, in private.

“We can continue this tomorrow, if anything may come of it. Think on it, alright?” She flashes the serious regent and swordmaster a smile, attempting to lighten the mood. He stares darkly back at her but nods, appreciative of her sunny disposition in a country so cold.

Lissa shuts the door softly behind the last of her guards, who insist on generally taking care of everything for her. _Not tonight_ , she thinks with mischief, a small grin breaking out over her features.

“Gallant,” she says, and the guard to her right perks up in his heavy silver amour, helmet obscuring most of his face. “Come, we have some contraband—I mean, a guest—to attend to.”

\---

Lissa quietly tiptoes into the stables with her guard in tow, lifting her robes, already drenched from snowfall, careful not to trip on them. These would need washing after dragging through dirt, snow, and now horse droppings. She wrinkles her nose as she slinks over to the far end of the expansive structure, horses flicking their tails and tossing their manes, swatting at the stray fly or insect that sought shelter inside. The large, covered sedan is parked uneasily on a pile of hay, the curtains still drawn. Lissa draws up beside it and cups her hands around her mouth.

“Aurora—” she whispers but then the curtain snaps open, the gaunt and fearful face of the tactician peering out.

“Lissa…is it time?” she hesitantly asks, glancing around the sister of the Exalt, trying to get a sense of her surroundings. She had barely resurfaced in the world of Ylisstol a mere two nights ago before Chrom and Lissa insisted she travel to Ferox to reunite with Lon’qu. They also claimed she had a son, Morgan, but as he was out on some sort of mission or trip with several of the other future children, they had not yet met. Aurora’s skin was slick with sweat, her heart light and fluttering in fearful anticipation of seeing more familiar faces again.

Familiar, yet…changed. Time really had passed since the end of the war, she the last thing she remembered was striking Grima down, and then darkness. She didn’t know what she would do, what she would say, when she saw Lon’qu.

Lissa coos softly, stroking the back of her head. Aurora suddenly feels incredibly childish, like a newborn in a world entirely unknown to her. She flushes and looks away, the light of the evening torches casting a comforting glow around Lissa, like a halo.

“He’s hardly changed,” she insists. “He’s the same Lon’qu you knew, dear, just…he’s regent for the West-Khan now.”

Aurora remembers, with a jolt.

“Basilio?!” She feverishly grabs at Lissa’s arms. Maybe he, too, had miraculously returned.

“Dead,” Lissa says gravely, pressing her lips into a thin line. Chrom and her were trying to be as delicate about this as possible, not introducing her to Morgan and hiding her from Lon’qu at first; Aurora returning was an uncalculated variable. Usually those who died stayed dead.

“It…it isn’t time yet,” Lissa says, resignation coloring her voice. Aurora starts, trying to get out of the miniature tent but Lissa pushes her back down, as rough as the tomboy she once was. The tactician splutters, rage and confusion flashing across her features.

“Would now not be as good a time as any?” she cries. Lissa frantically shushes her, waving her hands about.

“I…” Lissa starts, hesitant. “I don’t know.” The snow continues to sift down, silently, outside, the horses stamping their hooves and the torches flickering. Despite her governmental experience, she felt inept at this task; if this is what necromancy might have involved, Lissa wouldn’t wish this on anyone, not even Tharja. 

Resolve boils within the tactician’s chest. “I’m going to see him. _Now_ ,” she says, her voice steely. She pushes up, past Lissa, out of the sedan and onto her feet, her heavy cloak falling off one shoulder as she stumbles past Gallant, walking quickly. Lissa frantically gathers her robes from underneath her, her long, trailing sleeves, rushing after Aurora.

“I-It’s cold out there! Let me at least come with you!” she cries, almost tripping over her own two feet. The wind rushes in, blowing her long blonde hair back from her shoulders.

Aurora doesn’t break her stride, but doesn’t turn to send Lissa away, either. She, frankly, has no idea where she was going, but she does not care. They were in some kind of stable, she notes, passing the snouts and hindquarters of several horses snuffling at their food or stamping their hooves. She vaguely wonders if her old white horse from the war was still around. At the entrance, she is met with a wall of snow tumbling around her, dusting away the hard edge of the stone floor like baker’s flour. She can barely see five feet in front of her, the thin, dark, edges of tree branches scraping a blue and grey sky that hangs low with heavy snow-clouds. The muted glow of torchlight, seemingly miles away, catches her eye, and without further hesitation she steps out into the snow.

“Aurora!”

\---

Lon’qu stands over her gravestone, the snow picking up speed, the wind whipping at his hair and cloak, the tails snapping like flags. Ice bites at his exposed nose, making his eyes and nose watery, red. He did not quite know what drew him here, out in this inclement weather instead of curled up nicely underneath that accursed wool blanket. He glances upwards at the glow of candlelight from the now-shut window of his quarters.

He wishes Morgan were here, for a brief moment. He wishes he had not failed him so as a father.

“I’m sorry…” Lon’qu manages to choke out from underneath his scarf. “I was not right for you. For his sake, I hope he was sired by someone else. Someone more…worthy.” He speaks of Morgan, ever still reluctant to accept the concept of fatherhood, though it seemed to dangle in front of him like a water-skin in a dry desert. Morgan was his only connection to Aurora.

The wind roars now, the trees moaning around him, and Lon’qu decides it would probably be best to retire. He turns to go, the fresh snow crunching underneath his boots, soaking his pant legs, the ends of his coat, the fingers of his gloves. Trudging back, out of the yard beneath his window, around the side of the fortress, he passes a lone torch, the flame growing and shrinking with each breath of the wind, whipping like a head of orange hair. Its glow provides a welcome warmth upon his frigid skin, and Lon’qu pauses beside it, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Out of the darkness and blue colors of the falling snow, his eyes may deceive him, but Lon’qu sees a figure steadily approaching. He squints against the fierce snowfall; the figure walks clumsily, stumbling, not as sure-footed as someone from Ferox would normally be in this weather. He takes a few strides out from the wall, hand going to his sword hilt. With a flash and scrape of metal upon metal, he draws the blade, extending it out before him, towards the mysterious figure.

“Halt!” he shouts, raising his voice about the wind and groaning trees. “Who goes there?”

The person hesitates. If there is a response, he cannot hear it, the coat and hood over his ears is far too heavy. He only hears the sound of his own heartbeat and the wind beating at his sides. He brandishes his sword again, drawing himself to full height.

“Who—” he starts, but unexpectedly, the person begins walking again, coming closer. 

It appears to be…a woman. Slightly smaller than him in stature, huddled in a ridiculously oversized purple cloak, nothing to cover her face or chest other than the cloak’s hood and a skimpy tunic cut far too low. Her arms tightly hug her frame, her skin blue, her teeth chattering, her fingers almost purple. Snow is lodged in between her pants and her boots, soaking the fabric.

“L-Lon….” she croaks, collapsing face-first into his chest. Lon’qu drops his sword.

“Gods, Aurora?” he gasps, breathless, gripping her trembling, freezing form, pulling her back slightly to look more carefully at her face. Gaunt, teeth gritted, but the same pale skin and wispy brunette chop of hair. Gingerly, he hoists her into his arms, heading inside, gripping her as tightly as if he were to lose her again.

They barely make it inside the fortress before Aurora squirms out of his grip, hands flying into his hair, shoving back his hood, peeling away his gloves, his tunic, her mouth feverish and desperate on his own.

Lon’qu’s head reels, swimming in heat, his own palms hovering, almost afraid to touch her. Aurora pulls back, tears streaming down her face, grasping at his cheeks, hands slick with sweat, her voice trembling.

“Gods, Lon’qu, Lissa wanted me to wait, she brought me and I—” she splutters, throwing her arms around him again in a fierce embrace.

“…I had a feeling,” he mutters, a chuckle bubbling in his throat. “If you died of frostbite…” he begins warily, hands gently pushing through her hair, rubbing away one tear with the pad of his thumb. Aurora laughs, burying her face into his chest, and the sound is enough to draw heat behind his nose, his eyes, pricking with tears.

He shakes, attempting to retain some bit of composure.

“Tell me…” he says, carefully placing his words like chess pieces made of glass. “This isn’t a dream?” he asks, almost afraid to hear the answer. She would confirm his terrifying notion, disappearing into the wall, into the snow, into the candle-flame with the morning light.

The lightest of touches on his cheek from the tips of her fingers wrenches him back. 

Not breaking eye contact, Aurora makes a move to slip a hand inside his tunic. Lon’qu tenses, but Aurora’s steady gaze stills his movement. She brings her hand back out, holding the whittling knife Basilio had given to him. Lon’qu’s eyes widen imperceptibly, his breath hitching as Aurora draws a swift line over the tip of her index finger. She hisses, dropping the knife, in more pain than she expected. Blood blooms out of the cut like a bulbous rose, a round liquid ruby, slipping down the length of her hand in one crimson stream.

“There,” she says through gritted teeth. She sucks on the wound, tasting the coppery tinge of blood. Lon’qu stands, agape, unsure of what to say or do.

“I bleed, I’m real.”

Lon’qu cannot speak. 

“Don’t worry,” she insists, removing the finger from her mouth with a wet pop. She bends down to retrieve the knife. “I had to do that for myself, too.”

“We…we have a son,” Lon’qu whispers, one of his hands trembling as he reaches towards her. Aurora captures it in her bleeding hand, slowly, tenderly intertwining their fingers and pressing the back of his furry arm-guard to her cheek.

She is remembering, in flashes now, what was most vivid before she passed. Heavy breathing, panting, sweat and sheets and the agonized groans of pleasure she managed to elicit from Lon’qu, his composure melting away as they made love for the first time. She flushes and is sure that Lon’qu can feel the heat against his hand.

“I know,” she answers, her voice soft, growing husky with want. She never knew she had wanted something so badly in her life. Heat has begun to bloom in her core, and she shakes, inhaling his scent, sighing into his hand. She presses her lips, hot and soft, to his skin. It is too much, too soon, for Lon’qu.

Abruptly, he rips his hand away, trembling, holding it close to his stomach. “P-please tell me you are not a phantom,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “I cannot take it if the Gods are to torture me again, Naga, please…” He begs, hot, thick tears drifting downward over his cheeks.

He rambles, his mouth uncontrollable, staring warily at the woman who looks like Aurora, who kisses him like Aurora, who speaks like Aurora, staring at him with Aurora’s hazel eyes.

“M-Morgan and I do not speak. I fear I have failed you as a father, as a…” As a husband. But he had not even proposed. It didn’t make sense in his head. So maybe he was just dreaming again. “Please do not plague me, spirit!”

He shouts, whirling to face one of the many hallway windows. He stares out into the black night, afraid to turn around, afraid that if he does, she will no longer be there—merely an apparition. The air cries out in silence for a moment.

He feels a hand brush his own and nearly jumps out of his skin. Aurora has drawn up alongside him, leaning into his side.

“Lon’qu, I’m here,” she says softly. “I’m here now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is one of those things that wouldn't let me quit until i wrote *extends arms* THI-S-S-SSSSS MUCH


	2. Chapter 2

Aurora chews away at her plate with gusto, slicing into the slab of steak with a jagged knife, mashing the potatoes with her fork, sliding the roasted vegetables around in the cooking oil and spices, taking a swig of water in between bites. The hearth roars beside her, Flavia at the head of the table, Lon’qu seated on the other side. They are dressed in their nightclothes, simple tan tunics and boots, a rich red cloak encircling Flavia’s shoulders. One guard stands by the door; the thick curtains are drawn to shut out the cold. It is the dead of night, and as soon as Flavia found out Aurora had returned, she insisted on seeing her to all the comforts that Ferox had to offer. Lissa slumbered away in her guest bedchamber.

Flavia and Lon’qu watch Aurora with a peculiar sense of shared fascination. Lon’qu has to hold himself back, withdraw and hold his hands together in front of him, to keep from leaping across the table to touch Aurora again in order to assure himself of her reality. He watches her carefully, the way she chews, glancing around, her eyes darting towards him every so often, meeting his gaze and jumping away, restless and unsure. She reaches up to tuck a stray hair behind her ear, and he watches her long fingers and the way her pale skin catches and glows in the firelight.

He feels as if he is in a dream again—he cannot shake the feeling—especially because he has not slept or rested since this morning. She seems shy, flighty. He watches her with a warm yet tense feeling in his heart. _Who was he really looking at?_

“Aurora.”

Flavia addresses her and Aurora perks up, setting down her fork and swallowing one last lump of food. The Khan rises and strides over to Aurora, twirling the lavish cloak off her own shoulders and placing it over Aurora’s in one fluid motion. Her broad hands firmly, reassuringly, grip Aurora’s frame before she hops up to sit on the edge of the table. Aurora looks up at her, the firelight warming Flavia’s already cocoa-colored skin. Her eyes glint.

“What was it like, being dead?” she asks, a serene look on her features. Aurora blinks, pausing, slightly taken aback. _What kind of a question was that?_

“I don’t remember,” she answers, glancing down at her food, then up at Lon’qu. He is already watching her intently with those dark eyes, and she quickly looks away, to the fire, watching the flames pop and crackle and lick at the brick hearth, the stones blackened from years of use.

“I don’t…remember,” she repeats, contemplating the weight of her own words. She did remember some things, but the experience was not easy to describe.

Flavia is silent. She shifts beside Aurora, crossing her muscular arms.

“ _Was_ I dead?” the brunette ponders aloud, sweat beginning to prick on the back of her neck, gather between her fingers and inside the curve of her palm. Her heartrate begins to accelerate, memories flashing in her mind like strikes of lightning. Striking Grima down, the roaring, the pain like fire engulfing her body, swallowing it like a sour potion. Watching Lon’qu, even though her back was turned to him. It was as if she was out of her body, floating above the battlefield. 

“There was no body,” says Lon’qu, voice dark and rumbling. Aurora meets his eyes, biting her lower lip.

He takes a deep breath. “You just…” his voice halts, trailing off. “Disappeared.” He crosses his arms over his chest, staring down at the table.

“So, I am unsure if death is the correct assessment, Flavia,” he continues, addressing the Khan. Flavia shrugs, regarding Lon’qu with a level stare. She tilts her head back, craning her neck as if to see into the darkest crevices of the hall’s ceiling, as if there are angels and ancestors painted up there on the stones. She sighs, nonchalant, exhaling through her nose. She is thinking of Basilio. Her lion-heart clenches inside her chest, the only warm beacon in this damn arctic country.

Lon’qu knows this is a sensitive subject, especially for the two of them. Why had he lost someone, only to have her returned, unharmed? And yet Flavia continued to suffer. 

Without warning, the Khan lets out a bark of laughter. She ducks her head, a wry grin on her face as a tear drops off the tip of her chin.

“At any rate, the Gods are cruel and arbitrary.” she rasps, unable to tear the bitter smile from her face. She inhales sharply, hand coming up to brush away her own tears, her eyes burning.

Lon’qu had never see the Khan cry before. She had never once lost her composure in front of the boy—maybe alone, after Basilio died, she had, but now…seeing Aurora here, knowing her future had returned to her, that Naga had given her and Lon’qu a second chance…she couldn’t stop the raw ache of anguish tearing her apart.

Aurora and Lon’qu watch, silently, as Flavia struggles to stop the flow of hot tears, her throat tightening, her heart a drumbeat in her chest. She clasps her hands over her elbows, half-hugging herself. She blinks the tears away; she stares at the cobblestone floor, the roar of the fire deafening in her ears. She had to be strong for those who were going to inherit this world—she always knew this. Basilio would preach about it all the time, but she was the one who put the idea into his bald head—being strong for posterity. Taking Lon’qu in had really shown them this, had jolted them into the reality of their own mortality. They couldn’t afford to be hot-headed, reckless warlords for the rest of their lives. They had to lead and command by example; their strength must remain unmatched. And then the bastard had gone and gotten himself killed. And she remained, aging, alone. 

The Khan straightens, running a hand over her blonde hair, tied up in a ponytail, the only style she knew how to create. She stands from her perch on the table’s edge, pinches the bridge of her nose, wrinkling her eyes, battling an oncoming headache.

“Morgan returns from a hunting expedition tomorrow. It would do you good to sleep so that you can greet him properly,” she says, rounding the table, Aurora and Lon’qu’s eyes following her. As she approaches the door, the guard steps aside, and Flavia lets herself out.

The door slams shut, jarringly loud.

The only sounds remaining are the hearth, the fire lower now, only a pile of glowing logs, a patchwork of red and orange coals, bits of ash and soot floating away on the updraft. The wind gusts outside, the snow having stopped falling hours ago, now only blowing bits of ice across the window panes, a stray tree branch scratching the glass like a scraggly fingernail. The guard abruptly clears his throat.

“Leave us,” Lon’qu orders with no hesitation. His face is dark, watching Aurora. The guard gathers himself, skittering out.

Aurora’s hands have gone to the edges of Flavia’s cloak, feeling the fabric, almost like velvet but not quite, lined with white fur, a gold trim running its length. She risks a glance upward and is met with a hungry, almost predatory gaze from Lon’qu, still seated across from her. The firelight catches his dark eyes and makes them glow.

She swallows hard, remembering the last time she saw him like this. Not with the same expression—a reserve that he now seemed to lack, a terrible shyness and hesitation as he sat across from her in the mess hall as she pathetically ordered him to go “home,” trying to run away from her budding feelings.

But now she had returned—it was a clean slate, a fresh start, with no war and no consequences of fate hanging in the balance. So why did she feel such hesitation, in this moment?

Did he still love her? She had not thought twice about it when they reunited merely hours ago; his body warmth was welcome as well as his attractive features being undeniably alluring. She threw herself at him with reckless abandon that suddenly felt out of place. It felt like chess—she had taken two steps forward too hastily, now retreating in shame.

“What is it?” Lon’qu suddenly asks, breaking the silence she seemed so intent on keeping. His question, formulated out of concern and curiosity, was unfortunately gruff and laced with annoyance. The warm shadows dancing over her downturned face reminded him of when they spoke in her tent, of when they met in the mess hall…He felt he knew her better by firelight than he did during the day.

“Please, tell me.” His voice catches, a tinge of pleading, again. He wanted to know. He felt like he was staring into a bottomless pit, confusion and frustration churning in his gut, a heart-wrenching desire to hear her and know her again, now that she was returned. Her physical form had returned, but perhaps not all of her, yet, not all that he had known and thought he knew now. 

At his words, Aurora looks up, her eyes like pools of emerald, watching him steadily. She fiddles with the edge of Flavia’s cloak, then bundles it up, sitting forward, pushing it onto the table in front of her.

“Morgan,” she says, and that is enough.

Lon’qu hesitates. He swallows before a response leaves him, the words sticking to his esophagus like glue.

“I’ve said,” he sighs, trying to collect his thoughts. “That he claims to be my son. He turned up here one day and…challenged me. To a duel. He is…very eager. To learn, to speak. I am not…not what he wants, I am afraid.” He finishes ruefully.

Aurora’s brow is furrowed in thought, her hands folded underneath her chin. She doesn’t address Lon’qu self-depreciation, his pain, for a moment, unable to think of a proper response.

“I…” she starts shakily. “I want to meet him.” _But I am afraid._ She holds the words back with the force it would take to shout them, licking her lips, gripping her hands tighter together, staring at the tabletop. 

“You don’t think that…he’s our son?” she asks, addressing another of her lover’s concerns, one that has stuck in the back of her mind since he first mentioned it. Her voice is a whisper, a rasp, barely crossing the room. Her mouth has gone dry.

Lon’qu goes still where he sits, statuesque and grim.

“How can you have the complete confidence that he is?” Lon’qu retorts, barely pausing, his chest tightening as Aurora’s face darkens. He feels himself drawing up a wall again. He had misspoken, but cannot stop himself.

“We never married, like all the others,” he presses the issue, tries to brush it off, his heartrate quickening. Was he going to destroy this as well—his second chance?

Aurora coughs, her composure breaking. Her eyes burn and she is trying not to look at Lon’qu, someone who she considered her lover, in a past life. How could she right the past or the present, now that she had been gone so long? Desperation and dread hit her like a wave.

“I’m so sorry I…I disappeared…” She chokes, the tears coming hot and fast now. Her hands fly to her face, Flavia’s cloak falling from her shoulders as she doubles over into herself, panic and anxiety setting in, growing over her spine and into her lungs like a fungus.

“I…I left you…and Morgan, and if he’s ours…and we…” She speaks haltingly, voice cadencing like a forest creek running over jagged rock, thick with emotion and her face red with shame. “We even consummated things but maybe it was a stupid thing to do, and I, I…” _I must have done something wrong. It’s my fault. It’s my fault. I should have done so many things differently._

For a few moments, Lon’qu watches her, the feeling of his heart wrenching in two so presently painful inside his body that it spreads down his arms, up the back of his neck, into his head, making it pound, a cannonball slamming into his chest, his limbs like lead with the weight of sorrow he felt, seeing her cry. He couldn’t bear to see her weep, over this, over his faults, his failures, as a father and a lover. Maybe they needed each other now more than ever before.

The table is too wide for Lon’qu to reach his hand across. So he stands, quickly, walking to Aurora and kneeling beside her, the cobbled floor hard and cool on his knees. His broad hand against her upper back startles her and she gasps, head whipping up to look at him, snot dribbling over her quivering upper lip. His dark eyes stare back at her, searching her face, taking it in again. Her crying face was messy, contorted in sorrow, but Lon’qu, again, cannot, and this time, will not, tear himself away. He had some part to play with this woman, and wouldn’t stop here.

Aurora sobs brokenly and buries her face in her hands, trying to move away from him, the shock of the moment—her return, a son, Flavia, Lon’qu, Lissa, Basilio—all beginning to overwhelm her, but the soft pad of his finger on her cheek stops her. His eyes are unexpectedly warm, inviting…pleading.

She swallows, and, hand trembling, tentatively touches his wrist with the tips of her fingers.

It is enough.

Lon’qu cannot help himself; he leans forward, pushing his hand into her hair, lips capturing hers in the first kiss Lon’qu had initiated since her arrival. They savor the moment for a bit, a tentative connection between their skin, her lips salty, cold, still and unsure, his warm and plying, trying to ask for more, wanting more, but unsure how. Aurora’s hands rest awkwardly in her lap, Lon’qu tenderly holding her head, heat radiating between them.

Much to his surprise, Aurora is the one to pull away, wiping the corner of her mouth. He watches her, waiting, broad hands coming to rest at the nape of her slender neck, fingers absently playing with the tips of her short hair. He wishes, then, that he could just take her away from the world and keep her, all to himself.

“Lon’qu, how would you describe love?” she asks, voice rasping. 

Lon’qu pauses. He stands, pulls a nearby chair up beside her, reaches to take her hand in his, softly, rough skin catching on her own. The fire is merely whispering now, the room almost pitch black. He thinks about his words, for a moment, before he answers.

“If…you believe I know by now, I certainly don’t think I do,” he answers, some confidence in that reply bubbling up in his chest. Aurora snickers half-heartedly; a wry grin passes over his face. He wants to bring her hands to his lips, to drink her in again, to meld into one being, for the night—it would be so much simpler than this talking. But he would do anything, for her. He clears his throat, continuing at the sight of her expectant and thoughtful gaze.

“If anything, I felt…a great, a terrible…fear. Fear when I…began to harbor feelings for you, an…an attachment.” He tells his story; she gives his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“A fear that I am too familiar with—” _Ke’ri._ “The fear that I would lose someone I cared about. And I lost you; it appeared that my fear was not unfounded. And yet here you are. So why…why am I still afraid? Why can I not banish this feeling?” He growls in frustration at himself.

“You’ve come back, but I don’t….I do not deserve you.” He speaks unreserved, thinking aloud, her presence almost prying the words out of him like iron from a blacksmith’s mold. His head reels, remembering the feeling—the sensation, the impression—that he was going mad whenever she was near. Fear and confusion…was that love?

“Please stop saying things like that, Lon’qu.” Aurora interrupts him and his thoughts. “Please. You haven’t had a chance to be a father or proper suitor yet, all these things about fate and Grima got in the way. Please, don’t hate yourself.” she begs him, softly, lifting a small, cold hand to brush against his cheek. His eyes flutter shut, inhaling shakily, taken again by her words, her demeanor, everything about her.

“Perhaps this…this fear…is love,” he continues, hesitantly. “Because, I am so…unbearably happy that you are here, sitting in front of me, but it feels too good to be true, as if I may ruin it. It is the most egregiously confusing set of emotions I have ever felt,” he says, finishing breathlessly. He looks up to find her staring back at him, chuckling at his frustration just a bit in way that is familiar to him.

“From what I learned about you, all your life, ever since…her,” she says, carefully avoiding putting the name to a face deeply imbedded in his heart. “You’ve run and hidden,” she continues, voice light but slow, careful, sleep and exhaustion creeping in. “You’ve fought against companionship, you’ve isolated yourself, you’ve given up your agency, all for the sake of protecting others…or so you say.”

“But it doesn’t…it doesn’t always help, does it?” she ponders, squinting her eyes to see him better in the dark. He abruptly flits his gaze away.

“Shutting others out hurts. Remember when you were wounded and wouldn’t let me tend to you? It was just this cycle of pain. Pain and longing. I realized, through that, that I came to care for you, Lon’qu. Deeply.”

He flushes at that, but is glad that the darkness does not reveal it. The words, though they conveyed and described all that had happened between them, felt…lewd, spoken so directly, by her, so tenderly to him in the growing darkness.

“But you wouldn’t let me in, as much as I would have liked, anyway. You slowly did, whether you knew it or not, noticed or not. I was so proud of and happy with how close we got. Time has changed you—you seem more open, less paranoid—but…” She hesitates.

“Maybe, what I’m asking, Lon’qu, is…after all this time, after I died, do you…love me? Will you let me in, when our lives are not on the line?”

Lon’qu presses his lips together in a hard line. The silence is deafening, for a moment. A log falls in the fire, sending up a flurry of glowing orange sparks. Aurora leans in close, towards his ear, breath tickling his skin.

“I don’t want you to bear the weight of the world alone anymore,” she whispers, lacing her fingers into his own. Goosebumps prickle up and down his arms, along his neck, electrifying him into the tips of his fingers and toes.

Lon’qu takes a deep breath, savoring the way she smells, the way her body next to his is the greatest comfort he can imagine. “And neither…do I, you. Perhaps that…that is love?” he asks tentatively. Aurora laughs, drawing herself back, sitting up, ruffling her hand into his hair.

“We can be partners. Life partners, if you would like,” she suggests happily. “There is no one else I would rather spend my life with.”

“M-marriage, you are saying,” he stutters, blushing creeping up his neck, his face, his ears, the heat making his head spin. He passes a tongue over his lips. “I am familiar with the concept—” Lon’qu begins, but Aurora’s outburst of laughter cuts him off. He flushes more, scowling at her.

“Aw,” she whines, her eyes glinting in the firelight. “I definitely won’t marry you if you make a face like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been so frustrated with my writing abilities and style lately, so i'm super sorry for the long wait! I have big plans, but writing them is really hard. pls encourage me?
> 
> I got a lot of inspiration from this C.S. Lewis quote about Love. More on it to come, hopefully:
> 
> _“There is no safe investment. To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket – safe, dark, motionless, airless – it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.”_


	3. Chapter 3

Lon’qu leads Aurora back to his room, their fingers intertwined, his palm sweating just slightly. He thinks they both know what they are about to do, despite the overwhelming exhaustion and fatigue he feels. He hopes they’re on the same page. Aurora slips her hand away and up his forearm as he pushes the door open, glancing back at her small, thin-lipped smile over his shoulder.

He guides her inside, shutting the door softly, their feet dancing over one another, clumsy, their hands darting and floating and slipping around each other’s shoulders, necks, hips, sides.

Aurora’s serene look is reassuring beyond measure for him. He ducks his broad hands underneath the heavy material of her cloak and slips it away from her shoulders. It drops to the floor in a crumpled heap. Her ivory skin practically glows in the light from the burning candles scattered around his room, their wax melted into solid pools and towers on metal stands.

He leans forward to kiss her eager mouth, her pink lips, running his thumb over her jawline, just below her ear. She leans in to him, spine arching, his other hand firmly planted on her lower back. It felt right again. Not breaking their lip-lock, Aurora begins to tug at his clothes, his tunic and belt, deftly undoing the clasp with nimble fingers, roughly yanking his shirt up and out of his pants. Her hands, searing with heat now, plant themselves on his rippling, muscled stomach, greedily and hungrily pushing upwards, palms burning brands into his flesh and eliciting a deep groan from his throat. She pulls back for air, breathless, panting, Lon’qu’s shirt bunched up around his neck, his eyes wild and glinting in the candlelight. Aurora swears she can see the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Make me remember what it was like,” she exhales, commands, asks, pleads, watching his eyes widen and lips moisten. Lon’qu immediately complies, lips traveling downward to kiss her neck, ghosting over her skin and sucking, nibbling, licking and kissing with as much fervor as he can manage. Aurora gasps, her knees trembling as Lon’qu dips her lower, over the edge of the bed, still planting kisses on every spot of skin he can find.

As Lon’qu lays her down, gently, like a porcelain figurine, he reaches up and pulls his tunic over his head, removing his belt, heart racing in his chest. It thrums like a drumbeat, encouraging and nerve-wracking at the same time.

He’d done this once before. He can do it again. _They_ can do it again.

“D-do you want the candles lit?” Aurora suddenly asks, awkwardly looking up at her lover from where she lies. 

Lon’qu hesitates, not having spoken a single word since their talk in the grand hall, after he proposed they go back to his quarters. He hadn’t thought about the specifics, just that this would happen. He leans down, forward, over Aurora, his hands planted on either side of her head. Her hair splays out underneath her, her hands held together on her chest, almost as if to shield herself.

“Why do you ask that? I like seeing you,” Lon’qu replies, his voice soft, bringing his hand up to tenderly stroke her cheek. The warm, content look from Aurora is all he needs to begin kissing her again, his hand raking up the side of her thigh as she hooks her foot over his hip, tilting her head to deepen the kiss and eagerly parting her lips so that their tongues dance, sliding over one another, in between teeth and over lips, their breath coming hot and heavy, languidly exhaling and laboriously inhaling into each other’s lungs. Their hips meet in grinding, pushing motions, clumsy but with full intent. There were still too many clothes in the way, Lon’qu decides, pushing up and off Aurora for a moment.

He grabs the hem of her tunic, tugging upwards as she silently lifts her arms above her head, arching her back to help him remove the article of clothing. She sighs with relief as her breasts are freed from their elastic underclothes, her skin soft and malleable, her nipples pricking with the sudden exposure. She relaxes back into the bed, lovingly watching Lon’qu as his eyes travel over her body.

“Gods…you’re so beautiful.” he breathes, the words just pouring out, mouth nearly slack, unable to do anything but simply stare for a minute. Aurora smiles, aware of her power, relishing in it, but also letting her heart swell with incredible happiness, with joy, with the elation that they were together again—this time for good. No war, no dragons, no Grima, no fate. They were their own masters now.

“Lon’qu,” she croons, says to him softly, calling him. He almost faints from the way she says his name; it brings him wrenchingly back to the first time they made love, the way she sighed and gasped and yelped and cried out to him, becoming each other’s worlds for a few hours in the dead of night, completely fulfilled and together. No more distance. He needed that again—he had been without it for far too long, too painfully long.

He stands, taking off his pants, boots and socks, gingerly removing hers as well. She watches him, enthralled at his gentle demeanor from someone so gruff, so strong, her legs dangling lazily off the side of the bed, her toes skimming the cool cobblestones. The space between her legs prickles and pools hot with desire; she almost squirms to free her body from its clothing as his rough hands brush up the outsides of her thighs, tantalizing her with his touch.

She watches him—admires him; his upper body is littered with scars, dark lesions on his pale skin, faded and stretched like patchwork, like the animal skin over a drum. His collarbone juts out, creating deep shadows below his neck, his subtly toned stomach and substantial arm muscles truly a sight to behold. Aurora cannot help herself, she reaches out to grasp his forearm, experimentally squeezing the firm musculature in her hand, his skin hot like a fire in her palm. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of his face, and he runs a hand through his mop of dark hair, pushing it out of his eyes, dark brows knitting together in concentration and awkwardness as he focuses on the task at hand, on the woman before him.

He sighs as Aurora playfully pushes a foot up into his crotch, toes prodding at the muscle already stiff with blood. He responds swiftly, expression unchanging from one hungry and clouded with lust, pulling her underwear downward with a swift and sure tug, tossing them away behind him. Aurora, taken by surprise, covers her face with her hands.

“L-Lon’qu!” she hisses, squeezing her eyes shut, careful to be quiet within the castle walls, her heart racing as the air rushes in between her legs. She didn’t remember him being this forward, this direct. The sensation of his hands on her knees, the back of her thighs, his breath on her calf, makes her pry open one eye.

Lon’qu leans into the space between her legs and she slowly obliges him, his stomach brushing against her wet and warm crotch, the hard lump trapped within his underclothes aching to be freed against her hot and pliant body. He feels like a marble statue on top of her, someone so pillowy and intoxicatingly soft, him all hard lines and scars and muscles and angles. He sighs in ecstasy, pressing his face into her cleavage, reveling at the sensation and listening to her heartbeat. Aurora’s fingers travel into his hair, her gaze going skyward but her mind definitively focused on the sensation of Lon’qu suckling her nipple, kneading the other breast in his broad palm, the wet kissing noises arousing her further. Although completely naked, she isn’t cold, but rather overwhelmed with his natural body heat and heady aroma. He takes the pink bud of her nipple between his teeth and softly bites; she sharply gasps, bucking up into his hips, into his solid arousal.

Her mind reels. It was happening again—this time for good. Her heart threatens to beat out of her chest as she notes how meticulous and thorough he is, how good he is with his hands as one travels lower, over every plane and curve in her body, experimentally squeezing the extra, stretched skin of her love handles, coming around to rest in between her legs. His forefinger slips inside her effortlessly and she immediately responds, head swimming with heat, back arching into his touch, the heel of his palm grinding into her clitoris. He continues to kiss her chest, lips traveling downwards, flexing his digit inside her as she lets out a soft, involuntary moan, the noises she is making like music to his ears. He could listen to them forever; he didn’t care how loud they might get tonight—soldiers and comrades in Ferox be damned. He was a man, he had a woman, his lover for life, so he chose this night for himself, for themselves.

His lips come to rest merely one inch above her sensitive bud, his body lowered, kneeling at the edge of the bed. He speaks, breath hot on her skin, Aurora shuddering at the sensation, weak and trembling with anticipation. He hadn’t done anything like this before, when they first had sex. What was he going to try, now?

“Lon—” she starts, to ask him a question, to guide him, to, gods above, maybe talk him out of it before he humiliated himself in all his red and stammering glory. He cuts her off with an abrupt, fluid stroke inside her, the tip of his finger brushing the spongy membrane near the front of her entrance, eliciting a deep and harsh moan of pleasure.

“P-please,” he chokes out, voice hoarse with arousal, in a manner completely characteristic of the man as well as entirely contradictory to the confidence of his movements. “Let me.” _He’s almost…begging_ , Aurora marvels to herself, staring with wide eyes at his face resting between her legs.

“Naga…” she curses, breathes, hisses like a desperate prayer as she makes a tight fist against the bedsheets to brace herself. Wordlessly, she nods, watching his every movement as he proceeds, removing his finger, gently spreading apart her legs with his free hand, the sight reminding him of all the usual natural comparisons he has heard mention of before: a lotus flower, a clamshell, the feathery wing of a bird unfurling. Want, desire, pools in his stomach as he takes in the sight, glistening and pink.

He almost forgets Aurora’s face in the moment, but does not, glancing warily back up at her, almost asking for approval a second time before finally doing the deed. Her eyes are half-lidded, clouded with lust, her hair mussed and breathing ragged, stomach and chest rising and falling, cheeks flushed. Words like beautiful, dangerous, and a work of art, a painting—all come to mind. He wants to remember these small things for the rest of time. So he ducks his head just a bit, taking her pleading look as approval enough. 

A pass of his tongue over his lips to wet them almost throws Aurora over the edge right then and there.

He comes down and she gasps softly at first, lips forming a small “o,” furrowing her brows together at the new and marvelous sensation of his mouth on her nether regions. His hands firmly cup her upper calves, fingers straying towards the back of her knees. He then slips his warm, soft tongue into and between her fleshy folds, down and up and around, exploring, unsure and yet curiously bold. He strays downward, then back up, closer to the small bundle of nerves that she needs, now, to have touched, her mind reeling with all that is happening so quickly. 

_He could hardly know what he’s doing_ , she thinks vaguely to herself, toes curling, eyes shut to focus on the sensations. Despite this, his caution and meticulous nature are certainly doing more than enough to compensate. 

Clumsily, Aurora’s hand finds the top of his head, twisting her fingers into his thick hair as her thighs begin to twitch. The strong grip he has on her legs, spreading her apart, keeps her from jerking suddenly and kicking him in the head. She feels herself coming undone beneath his light touches, his increasingly eager licks and gesticulations generating more and more lewd, wet noises for both of them to listen to. The bridge of his nose brushes her clitoris as he pushes in deeper, grunting, humming, visibly enjoying himself, and Aurora almost completely loses it. Pushing back against his grip, she brings her feet together behind Lon’qu’s head, arching her back, thrusting her crotch up into his searing mouth, urging him to move deeper, work just a little bit more, stroke her a bit faster. She moans, loud, uncontrollable this time, eyes fluttering open and shut, her chest heaving, and Lon’qu eagerly follows suit, lapping at her sex. His fingers lightly skim her skin, going upwards to cup her behind, her hips, her stomach, squeezing, feather-light touches wresting even more beautiful whimpers and gasps from Aurora, whose nerves are on fire now, every sensation like lightning.

Lon’qu can tell, in his gut, from the way she is moving, her breathing rate, that she is getting closer. He pulls back for a moment to catch his breath and then goes in again, kissing and sucking her clitoris, tasting every bitter drop of her that he can, growing more aroused by the second. She is nearly pulling out his hair to stabilize herself, the other splayed and wrenched into the bedsheets.

“L-Lon…” She tries to say his name but it comes out as a strained exhale, snatched away by the overwhelming sensation that she is at the edge of a cliff, about to topple over. 

With a small squeak and a jerk, Aurora peaks, desperately shoving Lon’qu’s face into her groin, riding out her orgasm into his nose and mouth as he hums lowly, approvingly, hands firmly gripping her hips to still her spastic squirming.

As quickly as it happens, the afterglow washes over her, her whole body bathed in warmth, a heaviness growing into every limb. She pants, catching her breath. The tips of her fingers and toes tingle slightly, and she experimentally wiggles them to make sure she hasn’t just passed away for what would be the second time in her life. She feels as though she is, right now, simply a heartbeat, a soul in space, completely detached from anything that isn’t this feeling of complete ecstasy. She feels as if she just saw Naga again; her head is a sea of white clouds.

Lon’qu stands, grunting, casually wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. The sight of her wetness on his lips, smudged over his chin, is so damn attractive that Aurora feels like she might pass out. After a contemplative pause, he brings his hands to hips, hooking his thumbs into the band of his underclothes, so breathless and light-headed from what he has just done that he no longer cares for any form of propriety or reservations.

At this gesture, Aurora suddenly reanimates, like a corpse, swinging upward to sit, grasping at his hands with her own.

“Wait,” she starts, cutting herself off, staring up at him. His looks back down at her, confusion and hesitation flashing over his face. For a moment, he is unsure if he has the energy to continue.

However, Aurora’s palm caressing the bulge in his pants immediately decides for him. It wrenches him back to the present moment, his gaze locking with hers in awe and arousal, the contact drawing a low groan out of him. Her touch where he needs it the most right now is like fire, burning all the way to his core.

“Let me try something, too,” she whispers, leaning closer, pushing at the underside of his heavy testicles with the tip of her nose through the fabric of his underclothes. Lon’qu almost keels over at such a lewd action, his genitals, near her beautiful face, is a sight enough to make him turn red from the base of his neck to the tops of his ears. She sweetly presses her lips to the cloth, already damp with pre-cum, inhales softly, taking in his scent, one hand kneading him through the fabric.

Lon’qu can hardly take this. It had been too long since he had felt this much raw, physical, visceral want—the little clothes he was wearing while staring at her naked body, his arousal pulsing against her soft cheek, were entirely too much for his taste. His hands hover at her shoulders, at her head and soft hair, ready to throw her down and enter her immediately.

“Relax,” Aurora says, giving his balls a gentle tug and squeeze. Lon’qu trembles where he stands, legs growing weak. It is as if she read his mind, as if she could see the tension and lust he barely held in check through her half-shut eyes. “Let me work on you, too.”

He sighs, shoulders sagging against his will, palming a broad hand over the top of her head. Her hair is so unnervingly soft, like silk. Her wiles, her charm, her ethereal beauty, were all to him nothing short of witchcraft.

Aurora glances up at her lover, her soon-to-be-husband, pride and nervous excitement thrumming throughout her warm, still-glowing body. She releases him, gesturing for him to come lie down at the head of the bed. He obliges, clambering over her naked body, sinking into the beige sheets, the thick, goose feather-filled pillows against the headboard enough to prop up his upper body.

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dreamed about this,” he says as he watches her crawl towards him, leaning over his crotch, his voice rumbling. His head spins. Aurora giggles lightheartedly in reply, a small grin shared between lovers a welcome lightening of the mood. Lon’qu cannot help himself, at this he reaches out and touches his hand to her cheek, cupping it softly in a jarringly tender gesture. He looks at her with a mix of admiration and wonder, true happiness undeniably shining through his dark eyes. It makes Aurora stop for a moment, palm spread on his inner thigh. Turning her face, she kisses the inside of his fingers. Lon’qu smiles.

“Gods above, I am so in love with you.”

Aurora is almost too struck by his saccharine words and gestures to continue with her filthy forays into the sexual realm. She is already well along, though, and busies herself with gently sliding her lover’s underclothes away, over his thighs, down around his ankles, over his bare feet, dropping them off the edge of the bed.

Lon’qu winces slightly at the cool rush of air, his erection nearly springing out of his underclothes. He is extremely hard and almost afraid to see Aurora’s reaction, though he knows she had seen it before. Maybe in glimpses, in the muted dark of her tent, but now there was candlelight all around them. Nowhere to hide. No reason to. 

Aurora gulps, her body practically vibrating with anticipation. She wants to hop immediately on top on him, to make him tell her everything, anything, while at the same time wanting to shut him up, pin him down against the sheets and make him cry out her name. She had felt him her before—that was enough to judge how it might look in proper lighting. Now she was seeing it. She felt like she was really seeing everything now, now that she had died and returned to see it all—life in its kaleidoscope of colors—again.

She wants to say something but is afraid that words will shatter the moment. Instead, she cautiously reaches a hand forward, grasping his base with a tenderness and flighty hand that is simply too little for how tense Lon’qu is feeling right now. He, uncontrollably, lurches into her grip, a grunt of frustration escaping his lips, face going red with shame. Aurora releases him, a bit surprised, laughing almost to herself. His dark brows knit together and he tries not to scowl.

She doesn’t waste a moment more, reasserting a grip on his lower half. One hand, with its nimble fingers, kneads the surprisingly soft skin of his balls, the other languidly and slowly working up and down his length. With each stroke Lon’qu shudders; it is like a ring of fire encircling him, urging him to give in. He brings the back of his hand, his knuckles, to his quivering lips, attempting to stifle the moaning and choked whimpering noises that have begun to slip out of his throat. His eyes flutter open in time to see Aurora descend, licking her lips.

The sensation of her warm, wet mouth on him is almost too much; he bites his lip, hissing, heart racing inside his chest so much he can feel it shaking his bones, trembling beneath her. She eagerly licks and sucks, tongue swirling, eliciting more and more deep moans from him, throwing his head back. He is too close, too soon. He can’t last as long as her.

“Please,” he begs again, voice a harsh rasp, both his hands coming to grip her head over her ears. “I…I need…” he stammers. He can hardly stand it—this feeling. He needs to be joined to her again, as one.

“Okay,” she replies softly, easily, releasing him, all saliva and pre-cum and slick noises in her palm and between her fingers. Feeling dastardly, she brings her hand to her mouth, cleaning each digit off with her tongue, locking her gaze with his own. Lon’qu watches her every movement while breathing heavily, chest and forehead glistening with sweat, overcome with want.

He feels almost too heavy to move but manages to hook an arm around her waist and flip them around, the sheets and mattress sinking under their combined weight. In all their naked glory, she stares up at him, eyes alight, skin and face glowing with warmth and quiet admiration. He remembers feeling as if this is all he ever wanted, all he could ever want in his life, before filled with anything but moments of bliss like this. Gingerly, he takes the time to grab a pillow and slip it beneath her lower back, a brush of his hand against her soft skin drawing a happy sigh from his lover.

His gaze flickers to her, below, and back. A reassuring smile. He silently thanks the candlelight, the castle, for no drafts to snuff out their flames. Nervous, cautious and yet trembling with anticipation, he angles himself at her entrance, a guiding hand on her inner thigh, the other pressed into the bed to steady himself. Slowly, he sheathes himself within her.

Aurora cries out, a mixture of pleasure and pain; it felt like the first time all over again. Too excited, too roughly, he pulls out, thrusts back in, and she yelps, fingernails digging into his back. Lon’qu stills, stops, hovering above her, concern etched into his features, his hair curling just slightly from their body heat, his lips slightly parted, sweat trickling down his temple. 

“You alright?” he asks, breathless, and she nods frantically, struck by his beauty, attempting to relax and prepare herself for more. She sighs, spreading her fingers across his shoulder blades and the small of his back as he resumes his motions, painstakingly slow this time, easing into and out of her, the sensation like the burning coals of a fire, reaching deeper and deeper to strike a chord within both of their stomachs, burning a frayed rope that would inevitably snap.

Aurora closes her eyes, pushing her hips closer, draping one ankle over the other behind him. Lon’qu leans on his elbows, head and chest dipping lower, their bodies flush, panting and groaning with every movement. His thrusts begin to increase in speed, their wetness mixing and growing between them. Aurora’s gasps and sighs in waterfalls of sound, her body warm and soft beneath him, tears beginning to prick at her eyes, the pleasure of Lon’qu hitting the sweet, deep spot within her entirely overwhelming. His heart beats against her chest as he starts to lose control, faltering momentarily in his rhythm, growing desperately close, lips grazing her neck, breath hot and heavy.

She climaxes, less dramatic than the last time, but still clings to his firm body for stability, her insides quivering around him. Lon’qu abruptly grabs her inner bicep, firmly pressing his thumb into the muscle, bringing her hand away from him and above their heads as he slides his rough fingers into her own. She squeezes; he grasps her hand fiercely as he finds his release deep within Aurora, his whole body shaking, nearly collapsing on top of her. 

Too exhausted to hold himself up any longer, he falls away, the aftershocks of pleasure still tingling throughout his body, nestling up to her side as quickly as he can. Aurora lies there, panting, chuckles slightly, the back of her hand resting atop her slick forehead. She rolls over to face Lon’qu and finds him already staring back, blissful afterglow radiating from his normally stormy features. She lazily reaches up to card a hand through his dark, sweaty bangs. He simply stares back, blinking slowly, sides still heaving with breath, nostrils flaring. The candles still burn away all around them, and Lon’qu is distantly reminded of a church, a worshiping place for the divines. It is if they just made love in the pews. The image of stained glass glitters in his mind’s eyes; he swears he can hear a faint choir amongst the white noise of his orgasmic high. They fall asleep with Aurora’s palm on his cheek, his finding the curve of her hip and stomach, legs intertwined, breath softly kissing one another’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S SMUT IT'S SMUT IT'S SMUT IT'S SMUTU UT;SHFB SMTYUT UT'S SUTMT AND IT'S VERY LONG (that's what she said)  
> this is honestly my first time going all out with writing like this. so i'm v nervous. and worked a long time on this. plus. I listened to choral and orchestral music the whole time. Like [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mWgjwTc3PUw). because religious/worship/divine parallels to the bedroom r my kink.
> 
> Also. Il bianco e dolce cigno by Jacques Arcadelt, because I am a music major nerd. Lyrics are translated from Italian:
> 
> _The white and sweet swan_  
>  dies singing, and I,  
> weeping, reach the end of my life.  
> Strange and different fate,  
> that he dies disconsolate  
> and I die a blessed death,  
> which in dying fills me  
> full of joy and desire.  
> If in dying, were I to feel no other pain,  
> I would be content to die a thousand deaths a day.  
>   
> This song references "The little death" or La petite mort, "an expression which means "the brief loss or weakening of consciousness" and in modern usage refers specifically to "the sensation of orgasm as likened to death"."
> 
> Just dropping some nerd knowledge that has sexual connotations. B)


End file.
